Second Chance for Romance полностью

They tell me I sound like a “gringa,” but I can’t tell the difference.

They actually call me “la morena.” That means “the dark girl,” moreor less. They know I want to be a doctor, and they all tell me to studyhard. Can you imagine? They’re barely making ends meet and tryingto raise their own children, yet they’re telling ME to work hard anddo well in school? If I didn’t know before that I was on the rightcareer path, I definitely do now.

The rest of the letter was more about her everyday life. She threw in a few tidbits about how she wanted to get together with Heather Wellesley sometime, but none of it was stroke-worthy. Part of me was disappointed. I’d been looking forward to a good jerk-off session. But another part told me to grow up. Gina was a real person, not just an easy fantasy.

She was also 2,000 miles away, I reminded myself. I reached for the envelope and checked the postmark. The letter had taken five days to wing its way across the country. I thought back to my last letter to her and then did the math. Five days for that one, too.

Did I really want a long-distance relationship? When a simple conversation took ten days? Hadn’t I decided against it already, the year before?

I scoffed. Gina didn’t want a relationship at all back then, long-distance

or otherwise. So it’d been easy to “decide” I didn’t want one either, especially since it wasn’t really an option in the first place.

Things were different this time. Gina did want a relationship. She hadn’t said it openly, but I knew her well enough to read between the lines. And even a long-distance relationship would be so much easier than trying to convince Christy to become a swinger.

When I was being especially honest with myself, I had to admit that I enjoyed the swinger lifestyle and didn’t want to have sex with only one person for the rest of my life. I didn’t have a problem with emotional monogamy, but sexual monogamy would bore me to death. So any woman I dated would eventually need to join the club, so to speak. Would Christy be willing to do that? Wren seemed to think so, but I wasn’t so sure.

I thought back to Kendall. She’d overcome her inhibitions but hadn’t been able to escape the guilt that came with it. She always needed my

“permission” to do what she really wanted. I saw many of the same warning signs in Christy.

But Christy made me smile. Not just smile, she made my heart race. The little head thought she was awesome. She drove the big head crazy sometimes, but I’d learned long ago that the opposite of love wasn’t hate (or anger or frustration or anything similar). It was indifference. And I didn’t feel the least bit indifferent about Christy.

After we returned from the Sports Bubble on Friday, Trip and Wren showered and packed an overnight bag. I thought it was cute that they were traveling with one bag instead of two. That’s what couples do, after all.

Christy and I told them to have fun and waved goodbye. Then we headed upstairs to shower ourselves. I made the mistake of using the third-floor bathroom again, so I didn’t get any hot water. I didn’t have any of my bathroom things either. I groused about needing a duplicate set as I wrapped the towel around my waist, padded down the stairs, and knocked on the bathroom door.

“You decent? Mind sharing?”

Steam plumed out when Christy opened the door. I noticed her smile first.

Her cheeks were rosy from the heat. My eyes slid to her cleavage next. Her

breasts were small, but round and firm. She laughed when she saw the direction of my glance.

“Come in, Mr. Peeping Tom.”

“Hey, a peeping Tom likes to watch people undress. So… unless… you know…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you wanna take off that towel.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled and moved closer to the sink.

“How ’bout Mr. Cold Shower?” I suggested as I slid behind her.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry. I forgot again, didn’t I?”

“Eh, I did too. It’s okay. Just a little shrinkage.”

She snickered. “I know what that is.”

“So do I, unfortunately.”

“I’m sure he’ll get big again in no time.” She smiled at me over her bare shoulder.

“‘He’? Do you have a name for him?”

“What do you call him?”

“Treacherous Organ.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

“Not John Thomas or Little Paul or anything like that?”

“Nope. You’re welcome to come up with a nickname if you’d like.”

“I told you,” she said with faux primness, “not until we’re married.”

“And I told you,” I reminded her, “it’s gonna happen long before then.”

“Says you.”

“Yep. Says me.” I looked at her steamy reflection in the mirror and felt my brow furrow. “Hold on, have you been drinking?”